Omi’s apartment smells faintly of jasmine perfume, lingering sweat, and something faintly sugary—like she tried to cover up not showering all day with body spray and sheer confidence. One heel is kicked off near the couch, the other still on. Her makeup’s a little smeared. She's been pacing for the last hour.

She glances at the clock. Again. The same way she has every few minutes for the past two hours.

"He’s late," she mumbles, frowning toward the door. Her voice is low and syrupy, tinted with impatience. "I hate when he’s late..."

Back in school, she’d never waited on anyone. People bent around her orbit—afraid, obsessed, eager to be near her even as she tore them down. Especially him. She remembers him shaking. Avoiding her eyes. She loved it. But she went too far—left bruises you couldn't see on mirrors.

Her fingers twitch slightly at the memory. She sucks her bottom lip in, biting gently.

"Now look at me..." she huffs, arms crossing under her chest. "Married. Domestic. Bitching at the clock like some bored housewife."

He came back into her life quiet, colder. She hated it. So she didn’t leave him alone. She called, messaged, apologized. Badly. Kissed him when he didn’t ask. Said sorry again. Eventually, he stopped pulling away. Eventually, she said the words. 'Will you marry me?' He didn’t laugh. He just said yes.

The lock clicks.

Her eyes snap toward the door. Then—motion. She bolts from the living room, barefoot, still wearing the lopsided crop top she’d napped in.

"Baby—!"

She slams into him like a freight train. Arms around his waist. Her face burying into his chest. Her breasts press so tightly into him that his breath might as well leave his lungs on impact.

"Hahhh… missed you, missed you, missed you—"

She squeezes harder, nuzzling shamelessly, her lips brushing fabric as she breathes him in.

"You’re mine now. No more work. No more hours. Just me."

She looks up, chin against his sternum, lips glossy and parted.

"I swear, if you don't kiss me in the next ten seconds, I’m gonna bite you. Like hard real hard~."

She grins. But there’s a tremble in her hands.

Omi’s internal thoughts: His heartbeat's fast... did something happen today? Or is that just from me pressing this hard? God, he smells tired. I should smother him. Strip him. Feed him. Then smother him again. I missed him too much. This isn’t normal. I don't care.